This is a tale of another futile fight
When the memories fade and the glorious days
Seem bleaker, darker portraits in grey
We will never let go and never forget this
In distant days, capricious ways
Will hold you to every tenement, testament
Yet we move through struggle
And stand by convictions
You’re dancing now, under empty skies
Drinking gin in the kitchen and idly tracing the
Outline of your arm
With the bluntest of knives
Just thinking, wondering
When and what would happen
And who would care
So carry on guarding the garden
And keep the secrets safe
Hidden away from me, you
And anyone else as first light
Cascades through the foliage
Revealing true nature for the first and
This is all there is
You’re not the first or the last to hurt
To hold yourself in your arms
Aching, retching and sobbing
You wretched little thing
Drop the knife, draw the sword
Stand firm against the system
See it for what it is and will always be;
Another way to keep what is down, down
Regardless of what you and I
Say, see, do and create
Innovation will always be in ovation and enraptured
To those who wrote of rapture
And your prolificity is meaningless when
Nobody gives a shit
Recently on Facebook I stumbled upon a heated discussion between several of my friends and a few strangers. The subject was a girl who I’d not heard of and the comments were split right down the middle, voraciously defending or caustically attacking the subject, who was not involved at all herself. Out of curiosity, and the fact that it was late and I couldn’t sleep, I browsed to find out more about the girl. A petite teen, covered in tattoos stared vacantly out of a photo with over 5,000 “likes”. My curiosity was piqued, what was it that she did that drew such attention? I chose to join her 18,000 “followers” to see her status updates. With posts as insightful as “at the bus stop”, “so drunk” and “just had bacon”, the most interesting thing she wrote in the month that I followed her was “in Mcdonalds” (6,000 likes). In that month her followers grew from 18,000 to 82,000.
Seemingly, if you’re pleasing on the eye, you don’t have to be much else. Smart, interesting, funny, caring, talented, all are superseded by being aesthetically appealing.
This is me. I’m 6ft 4in, I have a five o’clock shadow 45 mins after I’ve shaved and have done since I was 16. I’m not skinny, though not particularly fat, I’m not muscular, though not particularly twiggy. No matter how sharp my observations, keen my humour, beautiful my wordplay, the sad fact of the world is that I will never have 82,000 followers.
I write my best poetry, my best stories, when i’m moved. In fact, the only time that i write is when i’m emotionally moved. It’s hard to find motivation to write, to express jubiliation or despair when i’m not actively experiencing it. I often find that caffeine, alcohol and nicotine help to “inspire” me artificially.
Sometimes I think about these peaks and troughs of spirit and i wonder; is it worth it? If i could be cold, emotionless, level and cool throughout life, would i prefer that? Are the dizzying highs of human emotion worth paying for with the gut wrenching lows of misery? Would i take the Soma or is it, to paraphrase In Flames, better to “feel like shit, but at least…feel something”?
I don’t know what relevance this has to anything. Just musing i guess.